


The Shape of Freedom

by HalfshellVenus



Series: The Shape Of Freedom [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: fanfic100, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5595133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-escape gen or pre-slash AU, hitching a ride on a train that leads toward freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shape of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/profile)[fanfic100](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/) challenge, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #41, “Shapes." Written during S1, so AU for the series after mid-S1.

x-x-x-x-x

The rhythm is calming, and Michael half-drowses with the swaying and soft clanking that rolls underneath him.

He is curled on his side, Lincoln close behind him, keeping what warmth they can against the cold metal and the dampness in the air. It has been one of the longest, best days of his life, and no part of it was easy or certain or safe.

The evening had been hurried, desperate. Things were pulled together, too many changes happening at the wrong time, and Michael rode the adrenaline with as much control as he could muster.

Getting Lincoln into the Infirmary again on such short notice had been a challenge. They’d settled on induced vomiting aided by large amounts of soap. Then, with too many escapees and so much danger, Michael had listened to his gut for once. He’d abandoned the easy money and the jet in waiting, and gone for simplicity instead. He and Sucre hung up a sheet and crawled out through the back cell wall, rushing through the corridors and tunnels. They’d dropped through the ceiling vent into the Infirmary, and the three of them had slipped out the window and across the wire. Across the rooftops and off over the edge, they dashed down the street and into the night.

Sucre had left them after just two blocks, his mind on Maricruz and the pickup he’d arranged. Lincoln and Michael took to the fields, breaking through late harvests and off toward the train tracks. The evening freight had left on schedule, and they had huddled in waiting as the black and rust-colored vision approached. Roaring closer, and then just passing them, they’d angled off a few cars back and then jumped it. Scrambling onto the ladder nearly as one, they had gone up to the top and down through the closest roof access. That such doorways still existed, for whatever unknown reason, was something Michael would be grateful for until the end of his days.

And then they had tumbled to the floor, surrounded by the darkness that carried them toward a new beginning. They clutched each other with rib-crushing relief, and then suddenly Lincoln was kissing Michael like the end of a long journey. And it was shocking and wonderful all at once, and whatever it meant it was absolutely right just for now. Michael met him just as fiercely and would have followed that moment anywhere Lincoln wanted to go and then some, but he held back for fear of pushing them toward something his brother would regret. Before long, Lincoln pulled back and started to recant. Michael just put his finger over those flustered words and kissed him back again, firmly. “You’re welcome,” he said—and it was complete and perfect and true. He pulled Lincoln’s head against his shoulder, and they rocked with the flow of relief and freedom and a future.

Hours later now, Michael’s hand covers the curve of Lincoln’s arm across his chest. His worries are just beginning, but he has conquered the hardest piece of the puzzle and escaped with both of them alive. He has his brother now, molded to him like the essence to his ether, and he has wanted this too much and for too long to ever admit. His brother’s presence makes him quiet, stops his searching, and the last uneasy part of who Michael is ceases resisting and comes to rest inside him. He had hopes and fears, and dangling, desperate plans. But having Lincoln here-- out of immediate danger, and with no shackles or executioners to destroy him—this is the part that _had_ to become real.

And so they are here in an empty boxcar, Michael scheming and Lincoln sleeping. Their luck is holding and they are still undiscovered on this journey West-- this escape that no-one would ever have thought possible. This clumsy transport was not even Michael’s second- or third-level backup plan, but actual elegance was never needed. Escape by train is a classic and proven method. And it has the advantage of simplicity.

They will move at night, working their way toward the storage locker in Iowa where food and clothes and a car will be waiting.

Right now, they travel toward their future, floating roughly in this industrial haven. Illinois will soon be behind them. And this crude and boxy chariot is just the beginning of the shape of freedom.

  


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End file.
